Dying For a Cupcake: A Devereaux's Dime Store Mystery

by Denise Swanson

  Figuring that Thomasina could find her way back upstairs without my help, and having no real need to see if she had an alibi since I knew of no motive for her to want Kizzy dead, I returned to the second floor. I had a feeling getting information from Annalee might not be as easy as the process had been with Thomasina.

  I found Annalee and Vance Buddy sitting in the space that had been reserved for the judges. The old office furniture had been removed and the room was now furnished with a couch, a couple of armchairs, and an occasional table. Against the far wall a lunch buffet with bottled water, soda, and coffee had been set up for them.

  Knocking, I slipped in without waiting for a response, then said, “Hi, I’m Devereaux Sinclair, the owner of the dime store. I hope you all are comfortable.”

  “Yes, we are, thanks.” Vance beamed, his teeth gleaming against his mocha skin. “Your delightful town has really rolled out the welcome mat for us.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” I smiled back. “Ms. Giancarlo was looking for the restroom and I thought perhaps you two might need to freshen up also but not want to use the public facilities. If so, please feel free to use the one inside my storage room.” I hoped one or the other would get up, but neither budged. “Otherwise is there anything I can get for you?”

  “Actually, since we seem to have a little time”— Vance rose to his feet and stretched—“I’d like to make some calls, but I forgot the charger for my cell. Is there a landline I could use?”

  “Certainly.” I nodded, happy to get rid of him. “If you go down the steps and make a right, you’ll see the entrance to the back room. There’s a phone on the desk that you’re more than welcome to use.” I added, “Just put the ‘do not disturb’ sign on the door if you want privacy.”

  “Oh, I don’t need one of those.” Vance chuckled. “But maybe a sign that says ‘already disturbed, enter at your own risk’ would be good.” He winked at me and left.

  Once he was gone, I took a seat in the chair opposite Annalee and tried to figure out how to ask her about her whereabouts when Fallon was poisoned and/or the two attempts on Kizzy’s life were made. I wasn’t sure how much time I had before Thomasina returned or how long Vance’s calls would take, so I needed to come up with something soon.

  My mind was still racing when Annalee said, “Heavens to Betsy! Will you look at all the food they have for us?” She bounced off the sofa and strolled over to the refreshment table, examining the various sandwiches and munchies. “Did you do all this?”

  “No.” I shook my head. “The contest organizers arranged everything.”

  “Not Kizzy, I’m sure.” Annalee picked up a bottle of water, looked at the label, and put it back in the bucket of ice. “I wonder who’s running her errands now that poor Fallon isn’t around.”

  “Fallon’s death must have been quite a shock to everyone.” This was my opening and I didn’t want to blow it. “Her being so young and all.”

  “We were all stunned.” Annalee selected a plate. “But now that the police think she was murdered, the whole situation is even more bizarre.”

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed. “Especially since Fallon might not have been the intended victim of the poisoning.”

  “Exactly.” Annalee turned from her perusal of the food and looked at me. Tapping her finger to her chin, she asked, “What do you think is behind all the drama our little contest has stirred up?”

  “Well . . .” I wasn’t sure how to respond. It seemed awfully cold to refer to a young woman’s murder as drama. “Anytime you have an influx of new personalities, there’s a good chance there’ll be some problems. I know when Shadow Bend agreed to host the competition, we sure weren’t expecting someone to try to assassinate Ms. Cutler.”

  “That was a bit of a surprise.” Annalee fluffed her short blond hair. “Although, considering how quickly Kizzy flies off the handle, it stands to reason that she’s made quite a few enemies.”

  “She does seem a little short tempered,” I agreed. “In fact, my grandmother is a huge fan of your show, and she told me about the episode when Ms. Cutler was your guest.” I glanced at Annalee, whose mouth had tightened, and added, “When she splattered you with raw batter.”

  “Precisely.” Annalee’s pale blue eyes were frosty. “Kizzy’s behavior was inexcusable.” The TV chef sighed. “It’s only because Lee and I are such good friends that I agreed to judge this contest.”

  “So you and Ms. Cutler haven’t exactly kissed and made up?” I asked.

  “She publicly apologized and I accepted.” Annalee’s expression was hard to read.

  “Ms. Cutler doesn’t strike me as someone who apologizes very often,” I commented. “So that must have felt like a real triumph for you.”

  “Yes. Yes, it did.” Annalee smiled widely, then said, “And that episode with the food fight went viral, which really shot our ratings through the stratosphere for a while.” Her smile faded and she shook her head. “But I’ll never have Kizzy on my program again.”

  “I sure wouldn’t,” I agreed. It sounded as if although Annalee didn’t like Kizzy, she really didn’t have a good motive to kill her. Still, just to be on the safe side, I wanted to know if the TV chef had an alibi. “It must be tough to get away for even a little while since your show is live five days a week.”

  “Sugar and Spice is on summer hiatus.” Annalee returned her attention to the refreshment table. “If it wasn’t, I couldn’t have been a judge.”

  “Did you come in from Kansas City Thursday night?” I could ask Ronni when the TV chef arrived, but this was my lead-in for other questions.

  “No. I couldn’t leave town until the next morning.” Annalee finished choosing her lunch. “I had agreed to provide the desserts for the Pink Ribbon Fireworks Ball, so I actually didn’t arrive until Friday at noon.”

  “Just before the big contest kickoff in the town square?” I confirmed.

  “Right.” Annalee brought her plate back to where she was sitting, then returned to the refreshment table and selected a can of Dr Pepper. “That’s why the opening ceremony started a little late. It took me longer to drive here than I was expecting. My GPS said an hour, but it was closer to ninety minutes with traffic and everything.”

  “I used to commute, and even under ideal conditions the trip was never under an hour and a quarter.” I glanced at the door. Thomasina and Vance would be coming back anytime now. “I bet the desserts you made for the ball were gorgeous. Did you take pictures?” Hey, pretending interest had worked with the kids’ recital; why not give it another try?

  “Just a few.” Annalee dug her cell from her purse and handed me the device. “But the newspaper covered the event, so there should be more on their Web site.”

  A dozen or so photos of Annalee with elaborate chocolate and sugar confections later, I was convinced that the TV chef had an alibi. I would check the newspaper’s Web site to confirm the date and time, but it looked as if another suspect could be scratched from my list.

  If Q and her brother were in the clear, I was going back to my original theory that the murderer was from Kizzy’s past, rather than her present.

  CHAPTER 21

  By the time I finished admiring Annalee’s dessert pictures and excused myself, Vance and Thomasina had returned and the three judges settled down to enjoy their lunch break before the cupcake tasting began. After checking the store and assuring myself that Hannah and Dad didn’t need my help, I slipped into the back room to pull up the Kansas City Star’s Web site on my laptop. I could have done it on my phone, but Boone had informed me that squinting at the small screen to read a lengthy article would give me wrinkles. Since the idea of injecting the bubonic plague or botulism or whatever the heck disease Botox contained into my forehead made me queasy, I vowed to follow his advice.

  The Star’s site confirmed Annalee’s alibi. There was a feature about the Pink Ribbon Fireworks Ba
ll and several photos of celebrities. A shot of the television chef dressed to the nines with her arm around the guest of honor in front of an elaborate chocolate and sugar tower confirmed her Thursday evening whereabouts.

  The article said that the ball had begun at seven p.m., so even if the picture of Annalee was taken right after the event started, the absolute soonest she could have arrived in Shadow Bend would’ve been eight thirty. According to my calculations, Fallon had accepted the delivery about seven fifteen.

  Satisfied that Annalee was in the clear, I returned to the sales floor. Although people were streaming through the dime store’s entrance, few were stopping to browse. They all hurried to the stairs and headed for the second floor. Vouchers were being given to the first seventy-five folks to arrive, and once the viewing was over and the judges had done their tasting, all the ticket holders would be allowed to choose one cupcake to eat.

  The entire event was being filmed by the Dessert Channel’s crew with commentary and interviews provided by the host, Merry Woodworth. Dirk Harvey, along with a second cameraman, was already upstairs working the event. He and the rest of the television crew had shown up with the first wave of attendees, but there had been no sign of Q.

  As I stood behind the candy counter and filled a gold-foil box with our special of the day, blueberries and cream truffles, I watched the door. I could only hope that Dirk’s sister would be on hand, since I had no idea how else to find her. Surely, Merry would want her makeup and hair freshened during such a long event. If Q didn’t show, I wasn’t sure how I‘d locate her, and I needed to figure out if she had an alibi for Fallon’s murder.

  I also kept an eye out for Boone. His latest text had informed me his client’s meltdown had been handled and he promised that he’d be over with the yearbook right after Tsar’s psychoanalysis session. Surprising as it was that kitty counseling was available at all, that the therapist worked on Sundays was astounding.

  It was close to two thirty, and I had about given up on Q when she, the ten contestants, and their significant others walked through the entrance. Following that group were Lee, Kizzy, and a man who by the look of his bulging muscles, military-style buzz cut, and the gun strapped to his hip had to be the bodyguard that Coop had mentioned. Evidently, Rambo wasn’t available, so Kizzy had had to settle for this guy.

  I smiled. Jake would be so happy to see that the Cupcake Weekend now had security. My smile faded. I hadn’t had a call from him since we were interrupted by the Doll Maker summoning him to the latest rendezvous. What if Jake had been shot? Or what if that monster had kidnapped him, too?

  My chest tightened; then I forced myself to breathe. Surely, I would have heard if anything had happened to Jake. If only because his uncle Tony would be notified.

  With the cupcake exhibition in full swing, the dime store was down to fewer than a dozen customers, so I told Hannah to text me if a horde of shoppers descended; then I ran up the stairs. I waved at the three judges who were sitting at a bistro table near the door; then as I mingled with the crowd, I kept my eye on Q and Dirk. My plan, such as it was, included following one or both of them if they ever left the room.

  When I finally made it to the platform where the cupcakes were displayed, I gasped. If anything, these creations were even more stunning than the first round. I recognized GB O’Rourke’s Bananas Foster entries from the slice of caramelized banana inserted into the thick cream cheese frosting, and my mouth watered.

  Next, I spotted Lauren Neumann’s Caramel Espresso submissions. They were iced with Swiss meringue buttercream that was drizzled with caramel syrup and topped with chocolate-covered coffee beans. My stomach growled, and I was suddenly sorry I hadn’t nabbed one of the golden tickets that would allow me to taste the amazing confections beckoning to me from the display stands.

  The sight of all the sugary goodness had distracted me, but I looked away just in time to see Q slip from the room. With one last longing glance at the gooey treats, I hurried after the young woman. I needed to find out how Q had tried to stop Kizzy from getting her fired and what her brother’s plan B had been. I was also interested in how Dirk’s previous scheme had landed Q in a mental health facility. The fact that that info wasn’t really any of my business unless it was relevant to the murder attempts didn’t make me any less curious.

  Q’s minnowlike build allowed her to glide effortlessly through the throng of people going in the opposite direction. I, on the other hand, felt like a fat salmon trying to swim upstream. It was a good thing that she was again dressed as if she were trying out for the sequel to The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Although her Cyberdog T-shirt, Living Dead Souls jacket, and tutu skirt were mostly black, her horned headband was bright pink, which made her easy to spot as she slithered toward the exit.

  When one of her Noctex skeleton garters popped and she stumbled, I nearly caught up to her. Evidently, keeping your balance on the seven-inch Demonia platform boots was as hard as it looked. Once she was outside the exhibition space, she paused and I hung back just out of sight to see where she was headed. The short hallway only had two options—the judges’ lounge or the stairs. She glanced behind her, peered into the lounge, then darted inside. I was just about to follow her when Kizzy and her bodyguard walked past me and joined Q. I scratched my head. In none of the scenarios that had run through my fevered imagination did Q and Kizzy have a meeting.

  Now the question was, how was I going to hear their discussion? Sadly, I didn’t have wings, so hovering outside the office’s second-story window was out. Did pressing a glass to the wall really work? Probably not, and besides, how would I explain my actions to the tourists going in and out of the cupcake exhibit?

  Wait! The heating vent. The lounge was directly above the stockroom. During the remodeling, the builder had told me that the office’s ductwork ran down the wall of the storeroom. He’d informed me of this when he was explaining that the construction had to be done a certain way. At the time, I hadn’t been too interested since I wasn’t footing the bill, but now I hoped this was the solution for my eavesdropping dilemma. Fingers crossed, I ran down the steps, into the back room, and over to the vent.

  Pressing my ear to the opening, I heard Kizzy’s voice. “If your brother isn’t going to redo the interview, we have nothing to talk about.”

  Apparently, I had missed the part of the conversation where Q had delivered the bad news.

  “And if that’s the case,” Kizzy continued, “why did you insist on meeting up? You could have just texted me Dirk’s refusal.”

  “I don’t think blackmailing me is something you want a permanent record of.” Q’s tone was smug. “In fact, if I were you, I’d ask Muscle Guy here to wait in the hall unless you want me to call him as a witness to your extortion attempt.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Kizzy snapped. “You only want him gone so you can have another try at killing me.”

  “That wasn’t me!” Q squealed. “I’m a vegan. I’d never harm a living soul.”

  Q was a vegan? I could have sworn she ate the chicken at the St. Saggy dinner. Had she thought it was tofu? And I distinctly remembered her chowing down on a piece of chocolate pie. Did she not realize that there was butter in the crust and milk in the filling?

  “How about your fiancé?” Kizzy’s voice interrupted my musings. “You certainly harmed him.”

  “How do you know about that?” Q shrieked. “That was an accident. I just wanted to punk him. He was always playing practical jokes on me and I could never get him back, so Dirk came up with the idea for me to mess with Abe’s beloved Harley.”

  “Loosening the front wheel of his motorcycle is hardly a prank,” Kizzy said.

  “He shouldn’t have been going so fast,” Q cried. “And it was supposed to just wobble—not come off.”

  “And now he’s a paraplegic.” Kizzy’s voice was growing faint and I figured she was walking toward the door. “But
that’s beside the point. Someone with your history of psychiatric hospital stays should not be working on a television show. There’s too much stress. Then you make mistakes like you did with my hair.”

  “Dirk can’t redo the interview because Merry refuses,” Q sobbed. “You should be mad at her, not us. He’d do it if she would.”

  “That’s not my problem,” Kizzy said. “Since you are unable to meet my terms, I’m sending a formal letter of complaint to the producer and stating that I expect you to be fired.” She paused, then in a falsely sympathetic tone added, “You’re just too unstable to be trusted with something important like a star’s appearance, my dear.”

  “I’m not.” Q’s voice was desperate. “When you were so upset Thursday afternoon, I immediately made an emergency appointment with my therapist for seven p.m. and Dirk drove me to Kansas City that evening. I talked to my shrink for three hours and she said that I was fine.”

  “So you were in KC from seven to ten?” Kizzy’s voice grew stronger. Plainly, she had decided not to leave the lounge quite yet. “Can you prove that?”

  “Yes,” Q answered. There was a pause, and then she said, “Here’s the parking ticket from the garage. Since Dirk was nice enough to drive me, I paid for it and kept the receipt for my tax guy. And here’s my psychologist’s card. She can tell you I’m fine. I’ll give her permission to talk to you about me.”

  I grinned. Who would have guessed that Q would employ an accountant, worry about her taxes, or be so meticulous with her records?

  “It looks like you aren’t the one trying to kill me after all,” Kizzy mused. “Unless you somehow figure out how to alter the time stamp—and frankly, my dear, I don’t think you’re smart enough to do that—you were in Kansas City from six forty-five to a little past nine fifty-eight on July second. I guess this lets your brother off the hook as well. Since this is his parking ticket, he couldn’t get his car out of the garage without it registering. Which means he’d have to deliver you to your shrink, rent another vehicle, drive to Shadow Bend, deliver the package to Fallon, and be back in KC to pick you up before ten. That would be quite a trick.” The cupcake tycoon hesitated, then said, “Okay. Provided your therapist can assure me you aren’t dangerous, I’ll let the hair incident slide, if—”